


And So We Must Carry On

by srvipers



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, High Honor Arthur Morgan, Maybe - Freeform, Multi, Red Dead Redemption 2 Spoilers, Reincarnation, haven't decided on an ending yet, this is self indulgent but im here for a good time not a long time
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-15
Updated: 2020-05-15
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:41:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24200758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/srvipers/pseuds/srvipers
Summary: He was the breeze in the air and the warmth of the sun and the chill of the evening. He was the dirt in which they walked under and he was the trees that stood sturdy and tall. He was the Buck, and he was a man, and his name was Arthur.
Relationships: Arthur Morgan & Charles Smith, Arthur Morgan & Van der Linde Gang, Javier Escuella & Arthur Morgan, John Marston & Arthur Morgan
Comments: 2
Kudos: 22





	And So We Must Carry On

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! Thank you for giving this fic a chance!
> 
> RDR2 crushed my heart and soul and I write this fic with tears streaming down my face. I am working on another RDR2 fic, but my emotions needed a release of some sort so I wrote this on the side. It won't be too long, and I'm unsure about the ending, but with the theory of the bird being Arthur in the Epilogue I felt a need to explore that idea. 
> 
> This first chapter is also written this way on purpose, more of a challenge to myself too, and I promise it'll even out the further in the story we go. But if it's too confusing, too all over the place, thats my bad writing and I appreciate it if anyone would like to give constructive criticism! 
> 
> I do not have a beta so all mistakes are mine.
> 
> Thank you again for stopping by and I hope you enjoy!

He is the breeze in the air and the warmth of the sun and the chill of the evening. He is the dirt in which they walk under and he is the trees that stand sturdy and tall. He is the grass their horses graze on and he is the berries in which they pick. He is the water that they drink and he is the stars that guide them. He is in their very breath and every heartbeat and every staggered step.

Their journey is long, their goal so very far away, and he walks right beside them. 

He is the Buck that runs along the tribe, who tempts the hunters every time he is spotted. They try to hunt him down the first time, the second time, and even five more times after that, until it is Charles who is told to hunt him.

He leads him on a merry chase, teases the hunter to follow him just a little ways from the tribe into the forest surrounding them. He is not leading him too far, no further than a mile at most, as Charles stops the chase when he travels too far. Maybe he’s worried the tribe will move on, maybe he is worried they assume he is abandoning them, or maybe he is too good of a man and he wants to stay close in case something goes wrong.

They are on a long journey, and the promise of peace in new lands is so very far away.

He does not know the answer, because he is only around them, beside them, over them, and under them- but he is not them. He does not know their thoughts beyond the words passed from their lips. He is not them any longer, does not have two legs and two hands and a true heart beat like them. He is everything and nothing and he is the Buck and the bird and the snake and the wolf and the mouse and the bear and the everything in between and beyond. He is the grass and the breeze and the earth and the trees. But he is not them, not anymore, and he knows them only by their nervous breaths and their worried words and their sad gazes and their scared cries.

Charles has barely spoken a few words since he has joined the tribe on their journey. 

He is no longer them, no longer flesh and blood like theirs, but his everything yearns to be beside him. 

So he is the Buck, running and playing and hoping to provide. Provide joy, provide distraction, provide food, provide tomorrow. He does not speak in words anymore, but he wants to provide, like the earth does for the animals which does for the humans. 

Charles chases him, always so understanding and aware and knowledgeable in ways others are not. He knows the Buck is not just a Buck and yet he follows anyways. Could be dangerous, could be a trick, but he continues anyways unless it is too far. Charles does not speak to him, does not utter words like the other hunters do when they realized they’re being played with. Instead he laughs, sometimes smiles, and chases until the Buck leads him to a herd. 

Deer, elk, pronghorn, turkeys, one time even to a patch of wild carrots when meat was scarce. He wanted to provide, he wanted Charles to see what he had to offer him and take without guilt. He was everything and he wanted to give everything. But he was also nothing, and sometimes Charles would not or could not take what he was given.

Does not matter, he always tried again.

***

He is the Buck and he is the grass and he is the fire in which the tribe sits around. He is the log that burns and he is the smoke that floats in his breeze. He is the Buck, who lays beside a sleeping horse that sees him and knows he is not a Buck either. She is smart and wise like her rider and she lays beside only him. He keeps her warm with his side pressed against hers and he keeps her safe by keeping the ground steady beneath her hooves and the grass green between her teeth. She is older, aging each day, and he soothes her aching joints with warm nights and cool water. 

She does not speak either, but she presses her face against his and nickers at him when he nips her with his winds and chases after him when Charles urges on the chase. She does not speak, like he had once been able to do, but her voice is as beautiful as bird song and her love for him and for Charles is strong and true. She is aging, every day she moves closer to joining the earth, but she is as steady as his trees and she continues to move. One hoof in front of the other, everyday, with the promise of freedom in new lands. They cannot speak in words, but both horse and Buck know one another.

***

He is known by them, understanding now that he is not like the others or the animals or the earth. He is something else, something unknown, but they do not cower when they realize this. Instead they open their arms to him, accept him readily, and now no longer hunt him. He is the Buck, but he is still the earth and the water and the trees and the air. He travels side by side with the tribe, weaving through their horses and their carriages and he lets their children pull and tug at his antlers. He is still the leaves on trees and the grass between horse teeth, but each day he is the Buck more and more. One day maybe he will be just the Buck, but for now he still feels like the bear and her cub, and he still is the blue jay and the summer breeze. 

But for now he walks besides the Chief, leading them on their journey as he is the earth in which they will soon settle. He knows the way because he has paved it with his winds and his fire and his rain and his animals. He walks beside the great Chief, lets the man place his hand against his neck and allows his old joints to lean on his sturdy ones. He stands steady when the man cannot, and he lays beside him when the Chief cannot stand too much longer. He does not know what the man needs, does not know what to provide him, but he yearns to do something just like with Charles and Taima and the tribe. He does not know what to do when the Chief calls him a name that was never his, not now and not before he became the earth and the sun. He calls the name, calls him the name of someone passed, and all he can do is shake his head. He is not the souls of others that have been human and then not. He is nothing but who he is. He is the earth and the sky and the fire and the birds and the Buck. But sometimes, he is not one of the birds, and he cries into his wind until he goes hoarse.

Days and days past, but a bird soon answers his call, and the bird is not him, and he knows without question who he is. He flies over the tribe, cries the only way his body allows, and the Chief knows without question who the bird is and not the Buck. The Chief speaks the bird's name, whispers it into his wind and he allows it to travel so that the bird will hear.

The bird stays far longer than nature would allow, but he is young and free now and soon he travels away. He is not like the Buck, who cannot just stay in this form and be everything all at once. The bird is solid and truly a bird, but the Buck is not. He is still everything, and something beyond his control does not allow him to be anything but everything. The bird will return, tied to the tribe in ways the Buck is not, but he is free now and he soars in the Buck’s winds and warm air. 

The bird is not like him, not like the Buck who is everything at once and nothing at all. And maybe the Buck yearns to be solid like the bird. Instead he falls into his running waters and enjoys being a tree for the evening.

***

Paytah is angry and sad and yearning for something that the Buck cannot provide. He cannot call back the bird, cannot control someone who is solid and their own, and maybe that is why the man hates him. No, not hate. The boy loves too much to hate, but the Buck still feels the rage in the man's yells and in his ragged breaths. He is trying to stand tall for his tribe, trying to fill the shoes of the one who had passed and is now the bird, trying to provide safety and protection in ways the Chief cannot do himself anymore. 

It is a hard time for a man who is mourning but still with so much responsibility. It calls to the Bucks memories of before, of his own time as one of them, but he keeps his snow off their backs and leads Charles to new animals to hunt and he hopes Paytah will understand, will accept his help in the only way he can.

He cannot change their enemies' hearts, cannot whisper into their ears to change their ways, but he can make their journey to their new home as easy as possible. As much as he is the wind and the snow and the dying grass, he is also not them, and there is only so much he can do. But he keeps his fire hot and strong, keeps his wood dry and burnable, and he leads new hunters to animals risking the winter weather for food. 

  
***

Each day he is less and less of everything, and every day more he is the Buck. He wills himself to be solid, to be the Buck like the bird is truly the bird. True winter has passed but the weather still turned harsh and biting and he cannot help them anymore with the snow covering all that he is. Their food has gone lean, they’re all eating out of their reserves, and still they have so long to travel. They cannot survive like this for much longer, and he knows what he must do- a sacrifice for one more time. 

He is caught digging through Charles’s bag, cold nose pressed against his sparse belongings and the man cracks a smile when he catches the Buck. He pushes his face away, a laugh on his lips, and it is the first he had heard it since snow started falling on the ground. 

Charles makes to put his bag away, maybe to put it out of reach, but the Buck turns his attention to the man's bow instead and he snatches it away with his teeth. Charles calls after him as he prances away, playing in the snow with the bow clutched in his mouth. He chases after him with his quiver thrown over his shoulder and an excited jump to his steps. He doesn’t call Taima over, the old girl nestled safely with the other horses to keep warm, and in the end it is only them two. 

The Buck lets Charles take the bow from him and isn’t needed to be encouraged again to follow. The Buck walks forwards and Charles trails behind, steps even and sure and maybe the Buck can hear a rhythm of a song hummed between his lips. It is a song that tugs at old memories, memories he doesn’t try to dwell on, because soon he will be everything again and the memories will mix with the memories of the earth and sky and he will not be as solid as he is again for a long time. He does not dwell on old memories, only new, and if the Buck could smile he would once again. There is no regret, no fear of what he is about to do. He knows what he will become, whether or not he will lose himself when he becomes everything again, and it is something he does not fear any longer. 

Maybe his old self had felt that fear, but he knows now, and so he is not afraid. 

He led Charles away, not far, never too far, and stops and turns.

Charles trusts the Buck, trusts when he leads him on a merry chase and to places to hunt or pick the earth's foods. So he is quick to look at the ground, search for tracks and proof of animals that he can hunt. The Buck knows the moment when Charles notices something is off, as he goes stiff and frowns and looks to the Buck for guidance. He searches the dead bushes and trees and ground for other foods like berries and fruits, but he finds nothing as well. The Buck lets him continue his search, standing in the snow and waiting for him to realize what the Buck wants.

“No.” 

It feels good to hear his voice, as rare as it is nowadays. But the Buck also hears the anger, the rage that must have been boiling inside. He has no human lips to answer, but Charles never needed words to understand him. Always so smart, so understanding, so wonderful.

“I will not hunt you. I will hunt further, miles and miles before I hunt you down.”

The Buck can only shake his head. He is as solid as he can be, but he is still some of the earth and the sky and the animals on it. He can feel them so very, very far away, and he will not lead him to the dangers of a hibernating bear. The earth isn’t solid enough for the journey, and the Buck had sworn he would provide until there was nothing left of himself to give. He himself was all there was left. 

Charles turns away, maybe to walk back or to make the journey of hunting like he said he was, but the Buck jumped in his way. He turned left and so the Buck turned as well, blocking him from moving forward. Charles glared and the Buck stared, and there were no words spoken as Charles tried, and failed, again. It went like that, back and forth for hours until Charles roared and threw his bow across the snowy floor. But the Buck had the patience of thousands upon thousands of years, of when the earth was much different than it was now. He had the memories of thousands of animals and trees and waters and like the trees and the plants he knew that he could outlast anyone in patience. 

But what ached his very being, what made the stuttering of his animal heart hurt was the tears that flowed from Charles’s eyes. Maybe he was unaware of them, maybe he was allowing the Buck to see and to hurt him like the Buck is hurting Charles, but it only made him want arms and hands like his past self once was so he can embrace him like he once had. 

The Buck pushed his head against Charles’s face, the only way this solid body can show affection, and snuffled in reply when Charles’s arms wrapped around his neck. 

He pushed himself bodily into Charles, hoping to imprint the feeling of the man's body into his own so that when he passes into the everything once again, he could latch onto this feeling so he does not lose himself. Charles was always a lifeline, and it wasn’t until this moment did he come to that realization. It was the only reason he may have been drawn to the tribe in the first place, as the connection he had to the people were not like the birds, and it was probably what stopped him the first time to succumb to the embrace of everything. He was everything, but everything was not him, and for the first time he knew that he did not want to ever succumb to it. Not yet, not until Charles too can join him when he is grey and old and pained joints like the great Chief’s. 

The Buck had the patience of thousands upon thousands of years, and so he told himself he can wait. 

He pushed himself to take in the solidness of Charles’s form so that when he crosses again, he can use it like a rope to lead him back.

“Thank you, Arthur...”

***

He was the breeze in the air and the warmth of the sun and the chill of the evening. He was the dirt in which they walked under and he was the trees that stood sturdy and tall. He was the Buck that ran along the tribe, leading them to a place that they could call home. He was the Buck, and he was a man, and his name was Arthur.


End file.
